


with eyes that burn so bright

by cherryvanilla



Category: Bright Eyes - Fandom, Music RPF, Rilo Kiley
Genre: F/M, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-19
Updated: 2010-11-19
Packaged: 2017-10-13 07:10:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/134397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryvanilla/pseuds/cherryvanilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five ways in which Blake and Conor never hooked up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	with eyes that burn so bright

**Author's Note:**

> Main title by Bright eyes, subtitles by Bright Eyes, Rilo Kiley and Mae.
> 
> Part III contains a 15 year old Conor and 22 year old Blake first meeting. The sex which takes place is completely clothed, but please skip that part if it offends you.
> 
> Originally written: May 2006.

I. **love’s an excuse to get hurt**

_2006_

Blake read an article recently claiming he sounds like Conor, that it made sense since he’s been “under his wing” for a number of years. What they don’t know is it isn’t Conor’s wing he’s been under. Snapshots flash behind his eyelids; being pressed into mattresses while Conor’s mouth mapped his neck and chest, tugging unmercifully on nipples with his teeth, causing Blake to arch and gasp in ecstasy.

It’s been happening on and off for over three years now. Conor would never come into the studio while Blake was recording his solo debut, but they’d meet afterwards and drink and fuck, Blake teasing Conor about being, “so drunk he couldn’t talk.”

They never mention it and when Conor had asked Jenny to be on his new record label, Blake grit his teeth, but never said, “why not me?”

When Jenny was recording they’d talk on the phone nearly every night. He wanted to ask her if Conor mentioned him, if she knows anything; if she ever did. He has no clue what he’d tell her, anyway. It’s hardly the healthiest “relationship” he’s ever been in and worse, he thinks she’d pity him.

The last time he and Conor fucked was a month ago, before the start of the tour. In Conor’s house with dirty clothes thrown on the bed and sunlight streaming through windows as they moved together on the bed, Conor’s face ridiculously angelic above him, his cock thrusting in long, luxurious strokes like they had all the time in the world; a lazy, Saturday afternoon fuck with Blake’s legs hitching higher as Conor takes him closer to the edge. There was a moment were everything stilled and they paused mid-fuck, Conor’s lips parted, panting softly while Blake raised a shaky hand, running his finger down the side of Conor’s face. Their eyes locked and held as he and Conor began moving again, Conor hooking his arm under Blake’s thigh and angling deeper.

The words were caught in his throat and he willed Conor to say them. But instead Conor closed his eyes against the assault of emotions and whispered, “kiss me,” barely audible. Blake took his lips, licking across their perfect shape, inching his tongue between, immediately dancing with Conor’s, saying everything he couldn’t with the kiss instead.

When Conor didn’t return his calls for the next four weeks, he figured it’s possible to say too much without even opening your mouth.

And so when Conor shows up backstage before his L.A. show, Blake tries his best not to appear off-guard. They’ve never done this before; Conor’s never had anything to do with The Elected, choosing to act as if it doesn’t exist. Blake wants to push him against the dressing room door and demand answers. Wants to know why they never talk about it, about anything. Why the invitation was open to Jenny and not him. But he doesn’t, feels deep down he knows the answer, but has no clue what it means. It’s like the article comparing their lyrics, voices; the emotional honesty. Conor wants Blake to do it on his own, be his own frontman, without Conor’s shadow looming overhead. It’s why Blake won’t invite Conor onstage tonight; it’s why Conor won’t ask.

Blake wonders if everything between them will continue on unsaid. He asks the guys to give them a minute after the initial commotion of Conor’s impromptu appearance. When he closes the door, Conor’s in his space. Blake’s not going to mention the months’ worth of unreturned phone calls; neither will Conor.

He touches above Blake’s lip lightly. “I’m never gonna get used to this,” he says fondly, finger tracing the mustache.

“Jenny keeps sending me 70’s porn. Little does she know her evil plan is having the opposite affect.”

Conor tugs on the end of it, smiling. “I’ll just have to shave it off while you’re sleeping.”

Blake’s mouth opens then snaps shut, comically. The throw-away banter makes his leap into his throat. They’ve never done the actual “sleeping together” thing. And although he doubts it was a sign of any sort, he can’t calm his heart, thundering in his chest. Instead he kisses Conor hard and deep while pressed against the door. They sigh at all the right parts, licking into each other’s mouths with quiet desperation until there’s a knock at the door.

“Showtime,” Conor whispers.

Blake pants heavily, pressing their foreheads together for long seconds while they regain oxygen. At some point their fingers had interlocked, Conor’s sweaty palm kissing his. When he moves to untangle them Conor holds on, drawing the shape of a heart into Blake’s palm with his nail. It’s incredibly scene and incredibly Conor and Blake knows he’ll be gone by the time he walks offstage.

 

II. **and it just feels good when you’re next to me**

_2002_

After hours of recording With Arms Outstretched, Conor invites Blake and Jenny back to his place. He’s getting a digital of the final recording sent to his email, because that’s Conor even though it’s not his song, and wants them all to listen. Jenny begs off, claiming she’s tired and wants to take a bath. Blake knows her better than that; must have seen something in his eyes, noticed the way they were shining too brightly in the studio as he and Conor shared a mic, AJ and Jason on the other one, arms around each others shoulder while he stole smiling glances. He mentally moves her up a notch in the World’s Coolest Ex-Girlfriend category. She probably would’ve liked to go, probably would’ve even watched, at which Blake mentally slaps himself because who says there’ll be something to watch? He kisses her goodbye, giving her the key to their van and flushing a bit when she winks, before climbing into Conor’s car.

They make a pit stop for beer and cigarettes, Conor running into 7-11 while Blake waits in car, leg jumping like a virgin on prom night. When he gets back in the car he pulls out a cig and reaches over to Blake, placing it between his lips and cupping the lighter around it. Blake inhales a bit sharply, smelling nicotine and Conor’s CK-One. When they get to Conor’s house, Blake wanders into the living room while Conor grabs a bottle opener before bringing it and the 6-pack into the room.

Conor queues up the song and checks the rest of his mail. When it gets to the bridge Blake closes his eyes briefly, letting the sound of their blending voices wash over him; he loves the way they compliment one another. Blake likes to believe him and Conor operate under the same ideology when it comes to singing; an equation to bearing your soul. He listens, his own voice singing with the same passion as always, but there’s also joy. Singing the lyrics was like a weight off his shoulders, add that to Conor by his side, in a fun sing-along atmosphere complete with hand-claps, and suddenly he’s back in that studio, smiling like an idiot.

He feels the cold of a bottle being pressed into his hand as Conor flops down on the couch next to him. It’s only then he opens eyes, his gaze unfocused for a beat.

“And if you want me,” Conor sings softly along with their recorded voices while smiling crookedly at Blake, “you’d better speak up.”

“I. Won’t. Wait,” Blake chokes out, managing a wry smile of his own. But Conor’s eyes aren’t humorous; there’s something dark in them and Blake rears back for a moment.

“So you’d better,” Conor whispers, a breath of air suddenly hot and close, “move…” and before he can finish Blake is covering his mouth fervently, biting at that perfect lower lip, moaning when Conor’s hands go straight to his hair while his own go to the thin fabric of his shirt, inching beneath the edges and pressing his nails against warm skin.

In the few years he’s known Conor he never truly believed this would happen. He watched him wallow in relationships with terminally hopeless boys. He hopes he isn’t just another link in the chain, wonders “why now” when for Blake it was always “why not now.” But he doesn’t question, just sighs into Conor’s mouth which tastes like beer, cigarettes, and honey, as fingers slide down his skull, curving to pull Blake closer. They kiss deep and unpolished and when Conor tips him backwards Blake loses his balance and they fall to the floor in a tangle of limbs, as the bottles crash loudly around them. Conor’s laughing breathlessly into his mouth and Blake kisses him again, hard, his hands sneaking beneath Conor’s shirt, exploring the breath of his back, pressing his heel against the bones of his spinal column.

Conor’s leg slides between his thighs and they both swallow a gasp; he fists both hands in Blake’s hair, pining him to the floor while biting at Blake’s lips and moving over him in minute thrusts. Blake manages to get enough oxygen to his brain to lift Conor’s shirt off, tossing it in the vicinity of the spilt beer. He fits his fingers into the curves of Conor’s hipbones and pushes his jeans down a bit. Conor moans and breaks away, mouthing Blake’s jaw. “Fuck,” he breathes, and attacks Blake’s throat, hips moving faster as Blake meets him with every thrust. He slips his hand between their bodies, sliding down Conor’s zipper and scraping his knuckles up and down the outline of his cock.

“God. Wait, wait,” Conor says, sitting back, legs straddling Blake’s hips. He looks down, face flushed, hair a mess and eyes wide. Blake licks his lips and trails his hand along the inside of Conor’s thigh. Conor roughly pulls off Blake’s shirt and stands up, ridding his jeans and boxers more gracefully than he has any right too, while Blake fumbles clumsily with his own pants. Once naked (which consists of him never getting up, just the arching of his back as he slides his jeans down while Conor watches avidly) Conor climbs back on top of him, and they’re naked, all slick skin and the brushing of cocks and the rough scrap of hair amongst delicious friction. Blake’s palm finds the small of Conor’s back, tips him over on his side, rolling with him; they face each other, Conor’s leg hooking around Blake’s calf, his other perfectly aligned between his legs, their groins bumping and moving slow and delicious. Conor’s fingers stroke across his ass, nails scratching down the back of his legs.

“Oh,” Blake breathes, and they’re still kissing, have barely stopped, tongues teasing in a painfully slow glide while Conor slides along his cock and Blake pulls on his hair, soft and addicting, biting at his lips and chin. They move faster, his left hand moving to Conor’s back again, heel pressing against the swell of his ass. They fit perfectly, and it’s almost sensory overload, Conor’s hands kneading his ass, Conor’s tongue licking behind his teeth; the sharp jutes of his hipbones as their groins kiss again and again. Conor pants harshly into Blake’s mouth, pushing him over and starts thrusting widely, hair damp against his forehead and Blake combs through it with one hand while his other pulls Conor closer, fingers sliding between his cheeks and then Conor’s biting his neck and coming while Blake arches against him, finger angling inside, following him over the edge.

They lay for long minutes, sweaty and panting, Conor’s hands drawing indescribable patterns across his collarbone. It’s only then he notices the song was on repeat the whole time. He vaguely hears Jenny and the “boy choir” and smiles. Conor looms over him and after a second kisses him long and slow, like an old lover.

“You’re helping me clean up that beer, Sennett,” Conor grins against his lips and Blake tackles him with a laugh.

 

III. **when you pull on my hair, and bite me like that**

_May 2005_

He knew Conor was in town and heard about a possible appearance at tonight’s show. However, he doesn’t see him until soundcheck two hours before the show. They had press scheduled all day and he’s worn out from the repeated questions. When he sees Conor, it’s in the middle of  
Portions for Foxes, just a dark figure hanging out near the back of the club, looking out of place in a venue he played two nights earlier. Blake watches as he gracefully pops a pill and takes a swig of water. The soundcheck lasts entirely too long in Blake’s opinion and by the time it’s over he’d mentally catalogued all the looks, smiles and grins he and Conor shared in the past thirty minutes. They get off stage to hugs and catching up and a decision to grab some dinner. Blake spends the time trying to not stare at Conor’s lips while Jenny attempts to lure Conor onstage tonight. Where Blake fails miserable, Jenny succeeds. He picks up the bill as a thank you.

Whenever Blake’s onstage he’s over-sensitized, adrenaline pumping and everything tactile. He feels it whenever sharing a microphone with Jenny, their faces so close, sharing body heat and breath. It’s comfortable and it’s love, but it’s not passion. So when Conor comes onstage for ‘With Arms..’ and saddles up to Blake’s microphone, drink in hand, Blake goes hard instantly. He’s smiling and giddy while they sing and he doesn’t care. It’s so much fun singing this with him again, and when their faces come close and Blake feels hot air against his cheek all he can think is slamming Conor against the nearest hard surface and fucking him tell he screams.

After the encore, which included many side-glances to Conor, and a final goodnight to D.C. he walks offstage, noticing Conor’s already gone. He’s giving various hugs and high-fives to everyone backstage when he’s suddenly spun around by a hand on his bicep.

“Hey, wha..” he starts to Conor, but shuts up when a finger is placed on his lips. Conor says nothing and pulls him down into the hallway and around a corner.

“Con— “ But again he’s cut off, this time with lips, quick and hard.

“You’re lucky I didn’t do that up there,” Conor says, voice deeper than usual, then covers his lips again. Blake wasn’t expecting this, but it’s entirely possible he’s just as clueless as Jenny’s always said. So he kisses back, pressing his knee between Conor’s legs and griping his small, firm ass with both hands. He sucks hard on Conor’s neck, his cock pressed against Conor’s leg, feeling the answering hardness. The hallway is eerily quiet and their breathing fills his ears. Conor makes a soft sound when he bites harder, and god, he needs this.

“When we get outta here…” Blake chokes.

“Yess,” Conor moans.

Blake kisses him deep, sucking at his lip. “Gonna fuck you so hard,”

Conor gasps, bucking under his roaming hands, “nuuhh.”

Blake grinds himself shameless against Conor’s leg, hooking his fingers in the belt loops of Conor’s jeans, his head falling back against the wall as Conor places a string of kisses down his neck. He barely hears the sound of a door opening and when he opens his eyes he sees Jenny emerging from the bathroom across the hall. “That’s just so cliché,” she says with mock-disappointment in her voice and never breaks her stride, singing under her breath. Blake feels Conor’s smile against his skin and pinches his side, hard.

 

IV. **And there's a boy in a basement with a four track machine**

_1995_

 

You’d only planned on getting a late night chai and yogurt muffin on the way home from your minimum wage job when a soft voice, raw and painful yet somehow soft, from the other side of the café reaches your ears. When you turn you see a boy with dark hair, bangs like yours falling in front of his eyes. He’s wearing baggy jeans and a flimsy T-shirt that’s practically see-through, clinging to him in all the right places and if this were a different part of town, he’d be mistaken for a rent-boy.

He can’t be more than sixteen and you probably shouldn’t be watching the way his lips move, forming perfect syllables. You sit down, eyes shifting to the delicate movement of his fingers as he plucks the strings on his guitar, effortlessly, knowing you’ll be going home and playing your own. When you look up his eyes are trained on your face and your breath catches at the intensity of his stare. The corner of his mouth quirks knowingly and you flush slightly. The rest of his set passes mostly the same way. You’re drawn in by the honest of his lyrics and the passion in his voice. You notice how his hand shakes as he caresses his guitar, the uncomfortable look on his face at times; the way he ducks his head when things get too personal. He’s awkward and vulnerable but at the same time comfortable, as if there’s nothing else he should be doing.

You feel the same way; knew acting wasn’t really your thing. And given the events of the past two days, it seems you may finally be getting a break. After his set, the kid,albeit predictably, walks over to you.

“You’re a musician, right?” You blink at him, more at the way he plops himself down at your table, straddling the chair, chin resting on his hands, than the question.

“Um, yeah. How --?”

“Just can tell. So?”

“So what?”

The kid stares at you like you’re stupid. “So did I dazzle you with my incomparable talent?”

You shake your head, bemused. “You really should be more modest,” you respond, dryly.

“It’s a gift. I’m Conor.”

“Blake,” you nod and find your eyes moving traveling his face against your will, caught on how the low light falls across his sharp cheekbones, making them even more pronounced.

This is the only way you can do this, so you go for it. “Look a bit young to be so sure of yourself. Or are you the next genius prodigy?”

He smirks, his eyes containing that ‘far too knowing’ gleam again. “I’m fifteen.”

And with that the slow warmth of flirting that’d been building at the base of your spine shatters like water rushing through a dam. You try to compose yourself, training your eyes on his, your voice flippant.

“Isn’t it a school night?”

He glares at you, but it’s weak. “Yes, Dad, but Mom said I could go out if I finished my Algebra.”

“Cute.”

Conor waggles his eyebrows. “Ya think?”

You ignore him, opting to look around you. The barista is shooting you both a look of death and it’s only then you realize someone is cleaning up the tables, getting ready to lock up.

Conor notices too. “Guess we gotta motor before they throw coffee on us,” he says while searching outside for something.

“You got a ride?”

“Was supposed to. Bandmate. Guess I’ve been ditched.”

Warning signs are flashing in your mind, yet your mouth doesn’t seem to know or care. “Come on.” You grab his guitar and start out the door.

“And they say chivalry is dead,” he says with amusement. “Will you hold the car door for me, too?”

“You throw him a glance over your shoulder. “Keep it up, boy genius, and you’ll be walkin’.”

“Lead on, MacDuff.”

You’re surprised he knows the reference. For some reason, it warms you again.

You toss his guitar in the back seat of your beat-up Nissan and jokingly hold open the passenger side door.

“Don’t expect me to put out cause of this,” he responds. “I’m not that kinda girl.”

It’s then you realize you’ve never stopped smiling since you left the café.

You get in the car and turn to him, the streetlamp your only light yet you can still make out the clearness of his eyes.

“You got a band, Blake?”

You shrug, not liking the subtle condensation in his tone. “Possibly soon. I just, you know, mess around a bit. Have some tracks laid down.”

What you’re seriously wondering, and have been since you started talking, is why he hasn’t noticed you from your show. It was only a few years ago. And he’s a kid. (Christ, he’s a kid.) But no way in hell will you bring it up.

“How old are you?” Conor asks.

“Twenty-two.”

“Wow,” he says with awe.

You laugh bitterly. You really don’t need any more reminds on the age thing. “Wow cause I’m legal?”

“Wow cause you’re already jaded.”

That startles you and you look at him hard. “Oh?”

His face softens, as if willing yours to do the same, and his hand comes to rest on your thigh. “You’re not washed up at twenty-two.”

You suck in a breath, trying to ignore his touch that feels like fire. “Easy for you to say, kid. How long have you been doing this?”

“I made a demo at thirteen. I’ve been in two bands. I’ve written about fifty songs.” He says the words like he’s reading a grocery list, never once flinching from your gaze.

“Jesus,” you breathe, jealousy and admiration curling with desire; the air suddenly warm and moist in the car.

“I’m still in a band. Do this solo thing, like, once a week. Being up there alone, vulnerable, it’s like rubbing salt in the wounds.”

Perhaps you let a bit too much show on your face at that, because now he’s grinning at you like a shark.

“I’m writing like, all these songs without them,” he continues, his hand rubbing absently on along your leg, “They have no clue. I’m gonna start my own record label, you’ll see. And then I’ll sign you.”

You scoff. “You’ve never even heard me. Hell, I don’t even have a band yet.”

Conor tucks some of his hair behind his ears and you nearly groan. “Don’t have to hear you. I know. You’ve got it in your eyes.”

You fidget in your seat, causing his hand to fall onto the seat, and you nearly sigh in relief. “Got what?”

“Just the eyes. You got the bright eyes.”

This is the weirdest kid you’ve ever met. “You’re fucked,” you tell him, without malice.

“No shit. But my songs are my therapy. Tell me it’s not the same for you.”

You stare at him again, searching his face. You really didn’t think anyone talked like this outside of soap operas. Yet it suits him and you can’t look away from his clear blue eyes, because everything he said, as dramatic as it’s been, has been right. Then he’s leaning forward and you put your hand lightly on his chest, feeling his heartbeat racing beneath your palm. You thought it was just you. Sighing, you shake your head.

“You’re fifteen.”

Conor grins again, self-deprecating. “Age is a state of mind. I’m like, thirty.” You laugh a little hoarsely and then he’s right there, soft press of lips and you make a noise, parting your lips as he strokes the roof of your mouth with his tongue.

You shifts in your seat as you kiss, wet and sloppy, yet perfect. Two days ago you’d been introduced to some girl named Jenny. Cute and tiny and apparently another child star. You hit it off immediately and wrote two songs with her in your friend’s basement that same day. You think if you’re really gonna do this band thing getting involved probably isn’t a good idea, no matter how adorable she is or how she’s been on your mind constantly until tonight.

For now you forget Jenny and her soft smile, focusing just on Conor with his sharp teeth and even sharper smile, like it’s a coded message no one can decipher. You kiss for what feels like hours. You don’t care about doing anything else, don’t really want to; just wants Conor’s mouth on yours, wet trails up to your ear, down your neck as he sucks hard, leaving a mark and making your fingers clutch at his shirt. You give back as good as you get, breathing against his neck, placing biting kisses and long, slow licks up to his jaw, as his neck falls back.

 

Then his hand is pressed against your cock, the heat of it palpable through the material, and you think, ‘okay, so this is happening,’ and he’s saying your name brokenly against your lips as you jerk him roughly through his jeans, his palm rubbing at you frantically.

“God, do it,” he moans, sucking your bottom lip into his mouth and you do, press harder, gripping the hard outline of his dick until you feel him cry out into your mouth and his hand spasms on your forearm as his other tightens around you and you come in your jeans, vaguely wishing you could feel his bare hand.

You keep kissing even through the pants and aftershocks. You wonder if Jenny’s mouth could ever taste this sweet and then remind yourself, no matter how Conor rationalized it, he’s still fifteen and you shouldn’t be comparing anyone to that. You reluctantly break from his tantalizing mouth and brush his hair off his forehead. “Still gonna sign me?”

Conor laughs and kisses your cheek, lips lingering. “Oh man, you know it.”

 

V. **when you whisper you want this, your eyes tell the same**

_March 2005_

It’s post-show in Paris and there’s about thirty people lounging around Conor’s hotel room, consuming grade-A pot and alcohol. You’re on the couch with Conor pressed tightly against one side and Jenny’s feet lying over both your laps. It’s an embarrassing position because any second she’ll feel you’re starting to get hard and while it has something to do with the way her skin brushes so lightly against your groin, it has more to do with the boy pressed up against you from shoulder to hip. If Conor notices your increasing tension, he doesn’t say anything. In fact, he relaxes further, slouching down and spreading his legs slightly, knee bumping your own.

On the floor there’s a mixture of guys and girls playing spin the bottle. You watch as two girls you don’t know kiss and wonder if Conor invited them. Jenny’s grinning at them lazily. You know she’s totally buzzed and you’re well on your way toward stoned. Her toes curl against your groin.

Conor nudges your shoulder. “Dare you to kiss me for 20 bucks.”

If you’d been drinking, your beer would now be all over Jenny’s bare legs. So you try to play it off casually. “Not that hard up for cash, Oberst, despite the fact we’re opening for you.”

“Think I saw somethin’ like that on youtube,” Jenny notes absently.

You smile at her, tickling the back of her knee just where it makes her jerk and giggle. “What’s a nice girl like you doing on youtube?”

She kicks at you, then stretches her arms over her head and arches her back, causing her dress to rise a few inches higher. “Looking for porn, of course. Sadly, they have rules and regulations against those things. Fuckers.” Her tone is dry and you laugh heartily. You really adore her.

“We’ll be your personal porn, Jen,” Conor promises.

“You’re forgetting I’m not a willing participant,” you say, refusing to turn your head, heart thudding in your chest.

Conor leans close and breathes on your neck. “You cannot escape my charms.”

Jenny giggles and you throw her a mock-glare, which just increases her amusement.

“Drink some more beer, Oberst,” you say, not liking how thick your voice is becoming.

His nose is pressed against the side of your neck and you shift uncomfortable, positive Jenny felt your cock jump and praying she’ll keep her mouth shut. “Chicken. Put your mouth where the money is, Sennett.”

You meet his eyes levelly, trying to gage his motivation and deciding after a few seconds you just don’t care. You lean in and press your lips to his softly, enjoying the surprised sound in response; you love proving someone wrong. Jenny gives a little squeak to your left and you smile against Conor’s mouth, running your tongue along his bottom lip. You feel him turn into you, hand carding through your hair, scratching at your neck.

Jenny’s heel presses down hard against your groin and you moan, blindly reaching over to run your hand up her bare leg to her thigh and down again, her skin so fucking soft. You love moments like this, when actions are based on feeling heady with lust, when it’s just for fun and you can touch and flirt without it meaning anything; just good clean fun with a friend. Your best friend.

With Conor, however, there’s nothing ‘clean’ about it. These are dirty, hot kisses; sighs against Conor’s lips as he pushes his tongue deeper, stroking along the roof of your mouth. Your fingers tighten reflexively on Jenny’s thigh and she grinds her heel down harder, moving rhythmically, her toes curling against Conor’s thigh and fuck if it doesn’t feel good. You’re so hard and you want this boy. Amidst the blood rushing in your ears you vaguely hear the sound of cheering, and Jenny’s somewhat breathless voice muttering, “All we need is a video camera.” You reach for her blindly, feeling her hand in yours as she guides it higher on her leg, to the edge of her panties and you moan as Conor eats at your mouth, hands rough in your hair. You just lightly skim the edge of Jenny’s thong, feeling her quiver beneath the touch, skimming your thumb over the center of her pussy so lightly it’s barely perceptible, before moving your hand back down. Because there’s fun and there’s crossing a line and this just doesn’t happen anymore, even though you sometimes miss it.

God, but not now, not with Conor, Conor who you’ve wanted for fucking ever, pressing you further into the cushions. You both moan when he leaves your mouth to lick a line from the base of your neck to your chin, teeth scraping your adam’s apple along the way. When he reaches your lips again, he lets them brush briefly and then his eyes are open and yours are too and he whispers, hoarsely, “I want this.” Your dick jumps again, eyes widening and you barely managed a shaky nod before he’s pushing himself up. You gently remove Jenny’s legs from your lap, regretful for the loss but not for long as Conor plasters himself to your side, groping you hard through the denim. You look down in Jenny’s vicinity, eyes unfocused, never fully seeing her, and shoot a secret smile. You stumble out of the room to wolf whistles and Conor pressed against your back, lazily licking your neck. It isn’t until you look back and spot Jenny’s wistful smile, when you realize you may have miscalculated.

[end]


End file.
